Are you alright, Mr Shepard?
by Livinginpublic
Summary: Anybody noticed how after every fight/battle/dangerous situation nobody asks if Tommy is okay?  I think really he just wants someone to ask if he's okay, just once.


"_I'm FINE if anyone cared!" _

"_I'm okay, if anybody's interested." _

He should just stop asking.

It was _obvious _nobody cared.

Nobody had asked if he was alright in years. It sounded like an exaggeration, really, it did, because surely someone had dropped a simple 'you alright, man?' at some point.

But nope.

Tommy could very distinctly remember the last time someone had asked if he was alright. He'd been sitting in his math class, starring at his paper with wide eyes. His knee kept jostling under the desk, was so nervous, he just had to _move_.

"Are you _alright_ Mr. Shepard?" His teacher had asked sharply. The tapping of his shoe constantly slapping against the laminate floor had obviously started to annoy her.

"Uh, no… I actually don't feel too well… can I go to the bathroom?" He needed to get out of this chair, out of this room, he could feel _something_ curling in his stomach, clawing desperately to get out.

"No, Thomas, this is a _test_."

He felt like he was going to explode. And then… he did.

Strange wasn't it? Surely, after all the screaming and the burning had died down, someone would have asked the terrified, sobbing kid in the middle of it if he was okay. But nope. Just hauled away.

Nobody in juvie bothers asking. They don't want to know. Especially when they're playing "let's see how deep we can cut the speedster till he can't run no more." They don't want to know if you're _alright._ They WANT you to be in pain. They already know that you're not alright.

Then… he was out.

Free.

But nothing changed.

He was still that kid from jail, the one they had to bust out. They only kept him around because he looked like Billy.

Tommy kicked at a can in the street angrily and growled.

_Billy fucking Kaplan_.

Oh with his sob story of the bullies. Then he got his powers and WOOPS nearly killed someone. But he still had his mom, his dad, two little brothers. They didn't drop the ball and run. Billy's never had his father stare at him through a panel of thick glass and say that he wished his son had never been born. He'd never begged while his father signed the consent forms for the prison to do _anything_ to him. He'd never cried and shouted through the glass as his father walked away, never looking back.

But who cared about that. _Billy_ used to get a lil beat up, _obviously_ he has issues with that.

Tommy snorted. Wuss.

Tommy moved to kick another object, a small stone, but it was ever so slightly out of his range. He twisted awkwardly and froze as sharp pain shot up his back. He held still for what felt like an excruciatingly long time, waiting for it to subside. Damn it.

He hit that wall harder than he thought.

He already knew it'd be a few days until he could us his speed. His back just kept _jarring_, stirring up old injuries he'd 'sustained' during the tests in jail.

He sighed and took a cautious step forward. It hurt a little, but it was he could deal with it. He'd dealt with worse. That was one advantage of the jail tests he supposed – he learned how to work through the pain.

He passed through the dark streets, stopping a ramshackle building that looked about ready to fall over. He pressed through the creaking door, nodded at the balding man behind a dimly lit desk and started the torturous journey up three flights of stairs to his room. He took a moment, leaning against what he was almost positive was the decaying wood of his door as he closed it behind him, reaching around to massage at the small of his back.

God, it really actually hurt. He looked around his small place, literally two rooms, the 'everything' room which operated as his lounge, kitchen and bedroom and then the bathroom. He'd never show the others this place. Really, where did they think he was staying? They broke him out of _jail_. They never asked.

Nobody really cared if he had a place to go home too.

He moved to the sink, reaching up to pull open the cupboard to get some pain medication. Pain shot through him again and he leaned against the bench, gasping at the strength of it and gripping at the cold metal of the sink in agony.

Screw the meds. He just wanted to get to bed.

He took one pained step towards the lumpy matrass with sharp poking springs that rested a few feet away and collapsed, hitting the creaking wooden floor of his apartment. He knew he had to move, because he'd seen on to many cockroaches on this floor to want to be on it for longer than a few seconds.

Thing was, he couldn't find a single thing to make him want to get up. Everything hurt and throbbed and even the simple action of pulling himself into a ball made him sob lightly in pain. Even _that_ hurt, the shutter of his gaspy, pathetic breaths while he sobbed into an arm.

He didn't get up.

He lay on the unsanitary floor of his shitty, cheap ass apartment, curled around himself and crying like a 15 year old girl after a breakup and hated himself for the fact he couldn't crawl two fucking feet to get onto the degraded and deathly uncomfortable matrass.

He just ducked his head, curling tighter for warmth and trying to ignore the sharp stabs of pain that shot through him at the movement, praying for sleep to come soon.

He'd never tell anyone – that's why he was so sarcastic, such a damn ass about it whenever he gets tossed around and nobody asked.

That's all he wanted.

More than a better apartment, a bed that didn't make him groan at the thought of sleep, a tap that didn't drip.

He just wanted someone to ask him, just once, 'are you alright?'

Cuz if they did, maybe he'd have the guts to tell them that no. He wasn't alright at all.


End file.
